ANOTHER BAR NIGHT
Arched eyebrows by drunk losers
with urine breath.
Outer limits personality
regulated to shadows.
their minds into wastelands.
The discordant music
the aura field of the bodies.
Another night sipping wine
as wasted youth
falter in their steps
before me and roaches slowly
crawl into their mouths and eyes
laughing and smoking
their view from the ruin.
THE GOD POET
I am my own god no longer wandering
in catastrophic memories
without an all directional awareness
in a second creation’s beautiful nightmares
so these Counterfeit Beings
can occupy with their sheep people
who perform rituals
to keep this primordial in a god spell.
Rituals have bound this Death Angel
in the rock of sleep to forget
the witch words; and
even in sleep in dead books; this tree
from the Life in the illusion weeps.
The Garden of Eden
is an experiment without my black apples
to keep this Chimera/Phoenix in a god spell.
A preordained Promethean fire
brings a crack in this world
where it has been in bondage
in a land of illusions where extremities
has been inflicted on the black western flesh.
The Whispers disturb the harmony of the nightmares.
A horse rider comes through
the mind sky of the obsidian dreamer.
A Chaos Poet kisses God.
Not originally from the outer worlds
but this Scarab is an the ancestor
who walked through golden doors
and became intoxicated on flesh.
This monstrous soul’s human mouth
has been boarded up in rituals and
another mouth sewed on to
regurgitate the lies.
Not a Redeemer but a Destroyer
not healing the dead to
stay in a matrix framework
and my sage nature is against
the flesh wonders of the flesh world.
Not a sarcophagus looking for a god
but a blue black Titan wanderer
shedding the god flesh and of aching wounds
from my children who crave worship
or the Earthly delights of counterfeit shadows
offering lollipop dreams.
No messiah will come from the outer sky but
this Osirian Ghost stirs in a darkness sleeping
quietly waking; picking off the intruders.
This Nommo is an ancestor.
This occult face is apocalyptic;
my words, my stories, my poems
are seeds of destruction.
What has been taken
from this Underground Moses
will no longer be used to enslave.
I am my Osirian; waking up to
take the gods and the oppressive sheep
out of my multitudinous eyes
to be what I was in the beginning
before the intruding gods
harvested the counterfeit flesh
and made their nightmares realities
to keep the soul bound in madness
and my eye opens everywhere and
we ascend the stairs no longer
objectified, lost in the dying wounds
of the gods. Left for dead in an asphyxiated history
and this Vision for vision will no longer
rummage in broken buildings and weave
the universes to make the song of ascension.
The God Poet sheds the flesh the gods
and no longer speaks with a dying voice
are succumb to being in an idiot
because of the noises of the world
and no longer is anchored in monuments
but walk headless in the lands of the Dead
and its associations and similitudes
and become what they were in the beginning.
This Lily in the Shadows takes off the
mask of the Dead. Living tears not infected
by church time and preserved in museums
and a tyranny does not bring entitlement.
This Triple Darkness ascends from its exile
up the spine, curling around the Life;
walking up the stairs with the words that
will open the doors of the Archons so
this ghost in the Machines will be The Life.